Although the room was supposed to be soundproofed, the two people in the reception area could clearly hear his booming voice.
“Commander, I—”
“Commander? No. It’s Connor. Just plain Connor. At least it was until you sent the Navy after me.”
“Don’t shout at me. I’m a United States ambassador. Show some damned respect, Connor, if not for me than for the office I hold and for the president I serve. Or you’ll find yourself court-martialed again.”
“Really?” he said in a voice of velvet steel. “If you or the president want me court-martialed, go right ahead. I’ve been there before,” he said, daring her to say something else.
She sank into her seat and paused. “Please, Connor, sit down.”
Stark grudgingly complied, if only to substitute the expensive cushioned chair in front of her desk for the memory of the airplane seats he had occupied for the past thirty hours. “Why the hell am I here?”
C. J. swiveled her chair to face the window, giving him only her elegant profile to look at.
“Your predecessor left this morning. He wasn’t getting much traction with what we’ve been assigned to do here. I haven’t been in the job long. I want to get this right, but I keep hitting walls. I need someone I trust who can break through those walls.”
Connor threw back his head and laughed. “That’s a new one, C. J. When did you start trusting me?” He rose from the chair and walked toward the window, back into her field of view.
“I do trust you. Your word is better than any contract.” Assuming the full authority of her office, she sat in silence, waiting for his full attention.
Stark stared out the window, allowing the tension in the room to build. In all the time he had spent in Yemen he had never seen the city from this vantage point. At this time of day the market in the street below was full of vendors and customers bickering about the price of items for sale. “That word didn’t save me from a court-martial,” he said, finally turning to face her.
“You did what you felt you had to do, and what you had said you would do. I did what I could to help. It wasn’t up to me, Connor. There were other issues, much bigger ones than you or me.”
“Whatever.” Connor shook his head. “Why am I here?” he repeated.
“Pirates. The same ones you dealt with until you left last year. The situation’s gotten worse in the Gulf of Aden. At this point, the pirates are hitting any ship they want. We have no military support in the region—practically everything has been redirected to the Persian Gulf or the western Pacific. I’m here to get the Yemeni Navy to agree to secure and stabilize the region, including the oil platforms off Socotra. Bill just doesn’t have enough assets to do it on his own.”
“So, get your agreement. What’s the problem with the Yemenis?”
“They’re stalling. They have all these boats we gave them a few years ago, but they won’t put to sea. We don’t know why. And we don’t have anyone they’ll work with. Someone with a real working relationship with them . . .”
“ . . . which I had when I worked for Bill.”
“Yes.”
“Which is why I’m here.”
“Yes.”
“And you think I’ll help you after all that’s happened?”
She shook her head sadly. “No. I don’t, really.” For a moment she allowed her fatigue and frustration to show.
Stark leaned forward in his chair and felt his shirt stick to his back; the office temperature was approaching that of the outside. “Then why?” he asked. “Why bring me here?”
“I hoped.”
“Hope is overrated.”
“Not when it’s the only option left to you,” she said.
“When it’s the only option left, it’s called desperation, not hope.”
“Okay, I’m desperate. Will you help?”
“I haven’t yet heard a reason why I should.”
“For Bill?”
“Bill hasn’t asked me.”
“How about for your country?”
“I think I did enough for my country when I was in uniform.”
“You’re in uniform now,” she reminded him.
“This time it’s not by choice.” Stark removed an envelope from his pocket, the same envelope he had gone to his boat to retrieve before the three Somalis attacked him in Ullapool, and held it up. “This is my general discharge. You want me to help? Change that to an honorable discharge.”
“Ok,” she said quietly.
“You don’t have that kind of power.”
“No? I got you recalled to duty and brought here, didn’t I?”
“Good point,” he admitted. “Let’s assume I can do whatever you need me to do. What then?”
“As soon as I have what I want, you can go back to . . . wherever you want to go.”
He thought about it for a moment. Until a few days ago he had finally been leading a life of peace and contentment, secure in the knowledge that he had disconnected from his past. And then three Somalis had tried to kill him. They had come to his adopted home, the home of his friends, Maggie’s home. Would that threat continue if he made the wrong decision now?
“I’ll do this,” he said finally. “And if my record is cleared as a result, I’ll accept that. But let me be clear—very clear: I’m not doing this for you or your damned president.” Stark caught himself. He hadn’t been in uniform twenty-four hours and had already violated Article 88 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice—contempt toward officials, namely his commander-in-chief. Fortunately, C. J. was a diplomat and was probably ignorant of the UCMJ. Stark, however, had firsthand experience with it and had violated it in almost every way possible the last time he was in uniform.
“I understand, Connor. Let me know what you need.”
“I don’t need anything from you. I’ll do this my way.” He turned away.
“Connor,” she said. Stark paused at the door keeping his back to her.
“Your way will be the right way, right?”
“It’ll be done.”
“Ready for a drink?” Maddox asked Stark as they walked out of the embassy and into the parking lot.
“It’s a dry country,” Stark reminded him. “The closest liquor store is about a thousand miles away.” Stark sighed but then brightened. “Well, not totally dry. I know of one place that might have something decent.”
“I thought you might. You always have, Connor.”
“We were younger and thinner then. And you didn’t have gray hair.”
“You’re one to talk. I see a few white flecks in that old rusty stubble of yours,” he said, offering Stark a cigarette. Maddox wore a white golf shirt that exposed his hairy arms. His fingertips were yellowed by years of smoking, and his voice was raspier than it had been twenty years ago when they were in college. For the first time Stark noticed the dark bags under his friend’s eyes. Clearly his work with the oil rigs had taken a toll.
Stark accepted and motioned to Maddox for a light. It was his first cigarette in fifteen years and only the fifth in his life. He had smoked the first four with Maddox, too. The mere act of lighting one seemed to clear his mind.
“How the hell did I wind up here, Bill?”
“I couldn’t stop her. I tried. She’s headstrong.”
“Some things never change. So my job is to negotiate with the Yemenis and get them to send their boats to sea to patrol in the Gulf of Aden and south of Socotra near your oilfields.”
“That about sums it up.”
“What’s the situation there? How much have you managed to get done?”
“We’ve finished three of the rigs. We don’t know when the last two will be completed. We’ve had a lot of delays. Most of our equipment and supplies are coming through Mukalla. Since the president shut down CTF 151 and redeployed everything to the Persian Gulf and the Pacific six months ago, we haven’t had much protection from the pirates. European and Arab naval presence is sporadic at best, so I’ve had to rely on the small fo
rce you set up.”
“Last thing I ever expected to do was start a maritime security company.” Stark took a long drag on the cigarette as he looked around the nearly empty compound. There were a lot fewer people around than the last time he was here. The walled portion of the compound was topped off by thousands of yards of concertina wire. Aside from the embassy building itself, most of the filth-encrusted structures inside had only one or two stories. The tennis courts on the far side of the lot were empty, the nets ragged with disuse and exposure to the elements. Even the Sheraton a few blocks away had failed to manage a clean façade. A Toyota minivan and a Land Cruiser were the only vehicles in the parking lot.
“You did good—and the folks you hired know their jobs. The Kirkwall’s a good boat. The Deveron and the Arnish don’t have her speed, but each of them carries two RHIBs and a helicopter as you recommended. Your instinct was right. The bird does a great job of extending the patrol range, and the inflatables deter the pirates, but the Ali Babas are a lot bolder these days. And I don’t have to tell you what all this security is costing me. At some point— and soon—I’ll be spending so much on security that any potential benefits from the oil rigs will be negligible, especially since I don’t own them outright. Which is why Washington is so concerned about stability and negotiations with the Yemenis.”
“I get it, Bill. If they’re so concerned, though, why is the embassy understaffed? I’ve been here for less than two hours and I’ve already noticed it. No spooks. No regional security officer—how can an embassy operate without an RSO?—only half the number of Marines you’d expect, and no other military staff at all. What the hell is going on here?” Stark took another long drag on the cigarette, enjoying the feel of the nicotine in his system. Bad for him? No doubt. But depressing times called for unusual measures.
“The Yemenis sent the CIA station chief home two weeks ago after someone outed him. State’s RSO was recalled to Washington at the same time. The embassy did get two assistant RSOs a few days ago.”
“Yeah. One drove me here. He doesn’t look old enough to shave.”
“Both of them are straight out of training.”
“First assignment for both of them? In a critical-threat post? Where’s the adult supervision?”
“Who knows? Plus, the ambassador believes diplomacy is the answer rather than force.”
“If she doesn’t think military security assets are the answer, why the hell did she bring me here? Oh, right: I’m not really military. I’m someone who knows certain Yemenis.”
“Bingo. Your predecessor was a good guy. Smart and well trained. But he ran into a wall with the Yemenis—and with her, too. She thinks spit-and-polish is a waste of time.”
The two men strolled past the lot to two waiting black SUVs, both part of Maddox’s personal security detail, and leaned cautiously against one, expecting the surface to be hot from the day’s direct sun.
“Well, I’m here and I’ve agreed to do the job. Let’s go over your show, Bill. What do I need to know?”
“We have one supply boat departing Mukalla every day carrying food, essentials, and crew swap-outs. We’re changing out personnel every ninety days since it’s a high-threat environment. Ninety days here and ninety days back home. We also have a larger ship that carries construction supplies. Both ships are always escorted—either by the Kirkwall, the Deveron, or the Arnish, or sometimes more than one. The Yemenis are still shaky about them and won’t let them enter the harbor, so they wait off the coast and then escort the supply boats across the Gulf of Aden.”
“Has there been any change in who owns the supply boats?”
“No, it’s still your friend. But we haven’t dealt with him directly very much since you left. He leaves most of the day-to-day stuff to his stevedore in Mukalla.”
“Ismael?”
“No, Ismael died in an accident. Hit by a car. It’s now a knucklehead named Ahmed al-Ghaydah. He’s inexperienced. Doesn’t know much about operations. We’ve had a lot of logistics problems in port. He’s also tough to reach, and that’s caused delays.”
“Got it. I’ll ask my friend about him.”
Maddox nodded. “Thanks, Connor. The supply boats also deliver equipment from the mainland for free along the route. The Yemenis don’t invest much in Socotra, and this is one way they provide supplies. Then we continue on around the east side of the island, then south and west to the oil platforms. Lately all three of our security boats have been in the water with very little downtime. Two provide escort duty while the other patrols to the west of the platforms looking for the pirates. How much have you been keeping up with the news?”
“Not much. I thought ignorance was bliss.”
“Yeah, right. My people are putting together a briefing packet for you. Three things have changed since you left for Scotland. The pirates aren’t just operating around the Gulf of Aden. They’re in the Red Sea, off Oman, off the Seychelles, even along the Indian coast.”
Stark whistled in disbelief. “Any sign the Indians are concerned about this?”
“I’ve met the Indian ambassador because about a third of the people working on the platforms are Indian. They’re playing it pretty close to the chest about this one.”
“They have to. They’ve got the Chinese knocking on their back door and their front door at the same time. Do you have the name of their naval attaché?”
“Captain Jayendra Dasgupta. I like him. Very professional. He’s a ship driver like you.”
“Like I used to be. I got a message to my friend before I left for Yemen. We’re meeting. After that, I want to go down to Mukalla and join one of the resupplies to get a feel for what’s going on around the rigs. That okay with you?”
“Sure. But don’t you think C. J. will be a little upset that you just got here and you’re going AWOL already?”
“She’ll get over it. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Are you still flying a helo from the rigs to Socotra?”
Maddox nodded as he tossed the remains of the cigarette to the ground. Stark’s own cigarette promptly followed.
“Good,” Stark continued. “I’ll take the boat over, then fly back to the island and hop a puddle-jumper to the mainland. I’ll need company communications just in case.”
“My company’s assets are yours. I’ll make sure your old designation is reactivated.”
“There’s one more thing.”
Maddox closed his eyes and shook his head when Stark told him about the attack by the Somalis in Ullapool. “Shit. Did you tell C. J.?”
“No. I need more information first.”
“Why would they target you?”
“Guess I’m just special.”
Maddox slapped him on the shoulder as his security detail opened the rear door of the vehicle. “That you are, Connor.”
The White House, Washington, D.C., 1315 (GMT)
Chief of Staff Eliot Green reached down and grabbed another Coke—his fourth of the day—from the cooler built into his credenza as Deputy Secretary of State John M. Dunner III entered his office. The tall, gray-haired diplomat had a rare untarnished image in the cesspool that was national politics. Political pundits had predicted that he would be President Becker’s choice as secretary of state. Becker, on Eliot Green’s recommendation, had instead picked a professor of international relations from Harvard with no managerial experience, much less any knowledge of how the D.C. political game was played. She depended on the White House for all guidance—as they had intended her to do. To placate the pundits, Becker and Green selected Dunner as her number two—and the White House treated him exactly like number two.
“Have a seat, John.” Green motioned toward the two upholstered chairs stationed in front of his big walnut desk. “Something to drink? Coffee? A Coke?”
Dunner shook his head, slowly walked around the nearest chair, and lowered himself into it. Green couldn’t help noticing the heavy bags under his red-rimmed eyes. The man probably hadn’t slept at all since
he found out that his only son—his only child—was dead.
“Again, John, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for your loss,” Green said. “And the president too, of course, as I’m sure he’s told you. Johnny was a fine young man with enormous promise. I’m sure he would have become a man worthy to fill your shoes.” If he’d ever managed to get away from the drugs, Green added silently to himself.
“Thank you, Eliot. Visitation will be tomorrow. Elizabeth and I hope to see you there. I wanted to take care of a few things here while I have some time. I’ve advised Secretary Forth about next month’s conference with the Russians, but I’m most concerned about Yemen. I’ve been in close contact with Ambassador Sumner, and—”
Green dropped the Mr. Nice Guy imitation and reverted to his usual abrasive personality. “You’ve been in close contact with a lot of people, John, some of whom were not exactly your subordinates.”
Dunner looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s not play this game. You’ve been talking to the Hill without our permission. You’re not playing with the team, my friend.”
“I’m doing my job as I see it, Eliot. Yemen is at a critical juncture. We need that agreement with them, but we’re not giving C. J. Sumner the tools or the people she needs to get it done. I checked the personnel records. We’ve been pulling people out one by one over the last three months and not replacing them. This is a ‘critical-threat’ post, but they don’t even have enough security people to protect the embassy if something should happen. We can . . . I mean . . . don’t you see?” The fatigued old man, ordinarily the most eloquent of speakers, found himself at a rare loss for words.
“You’re clearly under a lot of stress, John, and the president and I are worried about you. He’s wondering if you’d like to step down so you can spend more time with Elizabeth.”
The Aden Effect Page 6
